


Noesis

by rei_c



Series: Fundamental Image 'verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-27
Updated: 2006-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-27 23:43:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam’s stuck with Pastor Jim while Dean and Dad go hunting in Florida. What was meant to be an ordinary baby-sitting turns into Sam’s worst nightmare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Divine Revelation

**Author's Note:**

> S1 spoilers, all the way through. Run-on sentences. Out-of-context use of the Lesser Key of Solomon (Ars Notoria). Any and all errors relative to established SPN-canon, Catholic dogma, and/or the Blue Earth area spoken of herein are mine and mine alone. 
> 
> Noesis takes place pre-series, when Sam is 15.

Sam glares mutinously at his father, arms crossed and breath steaming in the morning air. “Pouting’s not going to change my mind, Sam, just earn you extra miles this morning,” Dad says, and, if anything, Sam’s glare gets worse. Dean’s coming back around the curve, Sam can hear his brother’s feet smack on the asphalt, and he knows what Dean will say when his brother catches him facing off against Dad like this. “Just tell me why not,” Sam says, again, and this time adds, “It’s not because I’m too young or not ready. You took me last time, when they were in Kentucky,” and Dad’s looking way past annoyed at this point, so Sam’s expecting another brush-off answer and three more miles, and is shocked when his dad sighs and says, “Jim was trained in Rome and served in ‘Nam. Think about it on your run and if you haven’t come up with an answer, I’ll tell you tonight. Now get going, down to the church and back,” and Sam opens his mouth to argue, that’s the longest run he’s allowed to go on by himself, but Dad points and says, “Now, Sam.”

Sam’s already warmed up, so he sets into the pace of a slow jog, muttering under his breath, and when Dean passes him, walking to cool down, Sam sees his brother roll his eyes, look at their father as if to try and gauge what mood Sam left him in. Sam couldn’t care less what mood his dad’s in; he’s just as angry, if not more, because they’re leaving him, again, just dropping him like unwanted baggage while they go off on a hunt. It isn’t fair, he knows how to track mud men, knows how to get rid of them just as well as Dean does, and so what if he can’t manage to knock Dean flat on his ass all the time, it’s not like Sam’s ever going to need to be any good at sparring if they always leave him behind. 

The anger and frustration carries Sam for the first two miles, giving weight to the rhythm he’s pounding out, focusing his eyes on a point in the distance he’ll never reach because he’s just not good enough. Disappointment kicks in on the third mile, fear on the fourth, that he’ll _never_ be good enough and that nothing he does will ever impress anyone, because Sam’s just not as good as Dean with the physical stuff, not when he’s still trying to get used to the size of his own body, find his own centre of gravity, feel out where he fits in to the family. He doesn’t, he’s not out for revenge like Dad and he’s not perfect like Dean, so maybe he should just leave, get out before he can fail again, but even that’s just not a viable option, not yet. He’s fifteen, and yeah, Dean’s taught him how to hustle, but Sam’s smart enough to realise he’s got nowhere to go but down if he tries to escape before he gets any older. 

On the fifth mile, he vows again to leave the first second he can, and on the sixth mile, when he’s run out most of his anger onto the road, he slows down, paces himself, and tries to figure out what his father meant. Of course Pastor Jim was in Vietnam, that’s where his dad met him, deployed in the same unit, and they’d kept in touch after the war, until Jim went to Rome and trained with the Order, started talking about demons and spiritual warfare. Dean’s said before that he remembers Christmas cards from Pastor Jim, when their mom was still alive and their dad looked the cards over before throwing them away, but Sam’s grown up seeing Jim every few months and it seems strange to think that Jim’s been hunting, in his own way, longer than his dad. 

Sam runs the seventh mile, down and around the church, and the Rosiclare-area priest waves when he sees Sam, calls out a greeting that Sam’s too busy regulating his breathing to return, but he waves back, circles the church and heads back in the direction of their crummy old house, still thinking, when it hits him: Rome, and Pastor Jim’s training, and the number of exorcisms they’ve had to do lately. Sam’s better at the Latin than Dean, one of the few things, but he’s been hard-pressed to perform the full rites and maybe, just maybe, Dad wasn’t lying when he said Jim was going to train Sam, not babysit, though of course there's some babysitting to it as well or Dad would drop both of them off in Blue Earth. 

_Well, fine then_ , Sam thinks, feet tracing out the eighth, ninth, and tenth miles. _I’ll show them both I can do this_ , and on the eleventh mile, he wonders how useful knowing Latin will be when he tries to leave all of this behind him. Some of his teachers are talking about college even though he’s only been at this school for five weeks, even though he’s just getting near the end of his freshman year, and it feels good, like a possible way out, and on his twelfth mile, Sam decides that he’ll keep his mouth shut about it, not even tell Dean, because Dean would tell Dad and Sam doesn’t want to think what _that_ argument would sound like. 

The last two miles go by fast, though Sam’s slowed down, not because he’s tired—running like this, just him and the road for miles, is nice, peaceful, a welcome change from school and Dean and Dad—but because it’s a Saturday and that means target practice after the morning jog. Sam’s better than any other fifteen-year-old he’s ever met, but he’s not as good as Dean, not when he’s still getting re-used to holding the guns, creating new muscle memory with bigger hands, longer arms. He’d rather work on his science project which, after hearing about Pastor Jim’s, probably won’t even get turned in, and that makes the anger start simmering under his skin again. 

Dean’s waiting behind the house when Sam walks around, wiping off his face with the bottom of his t-shirt; not really waiting, per se, doing one-handed push-ups while Dad cleans and oils the guns, but they won’t go farther out into the woods to shoot without him, and Sam would much rather run the fourteen miles again, but as soon as Sam’s done stretching, Dean and Dad take off with the guns and Sam’s ordered to follow. 

\--

They’re eating dinner that night when Dad asks Sam if he’s thought about their argument from the morning and Sam sees Dean tense but doesn’t care. “Yeah,” he says, “I get it,” and when Sam doesn’t say anything else, Dean relaxes, eyes shifting between Sam and their dad as if he doesn’t know what’s going on, because it’s not like Sam to back down like that without a damn good reason and all three of them know it. Dad gives Sam a look that might be relief or challenge, so Sam feels almost obligated to say, “Does this mean I’m not going to be able to turn my science project in?” and Dean starts laughing when Sam glares and says, “It’s worth half my grade and I don’t want to fail the class, all right?” Dean’s snickering around his mouthful of spaghetti and after he swallows, says, “Geekboy strikes again, hey, Sammy?” and Sam mutters, “Don’t call me that.” Dad looks at Sam, and for a moment Sam thinks that maybe dad’s going to start lecturing about school, that the hunt’s more important, and _God,_ Sam does not want to hear that speech again. “I’ll make arrangements,” Dad says instead, and Sam’s half-tempted to murmur a ‘ _Christo_ ’ but settles for complaining when it’s his turn to do the dishes. 

\--

Sunday morning’s like any other Sunday morning when they haven’t been hunting the night before. Dad wakes them up when it’s still dark outside, sends Sam and Dean out together through a trail in the west part of the woods, together for safety in the thick dankness of a dirt path before light. It’s not the same, running with Dean; there’s no sense of solitude and being able to go at the speed that he wants, because Dean always wants to make it a competition, make Sam run faster for longer on legs that ache when he’s just sitting down, much less sprinting. Still, the extra height, the extra inches he’s gained in the past year, are making it less work to keep up with Dean, making it easier to jump over the remnants of fallen trees, making it easier to land hard enough in the mud puddles to splash Dean. 

Dean gets him back by stepping up the pace, and by the time the sun’s peering over the edge of the trees and they’re back at the house, Dean’s shirt is tucked in to his shorts while Sam’s just sticks to his skin like glue. Sam gets to take the first shower, the only good thing about the growing pains that started years ago and still wake him up from dreams of fire every so often, and Dean eats two bowls of soggy oatmeal before they switch, Sam going through three pieces of toast and an apple before they get ready for church. 

Sam’s asked before if their family always went to church but Dean shrugs and Dad gets that look, like if Sam doesn’t shut up about it, he’s going to regret it, and that hardly ever has an impact except in this, because the look on Dad’s face is tinged with something like fear, and his dad’s not afraid of _anything_. Sam’s not going to argue, though, not even about having to wear such itchy, uncomfortable clothes that have become consistently too short, because he likes going to Mass. It’s calm, quiet, like he finds when he runs, and in a world where nothing except Dean and Dad are always there, it’s something stable. They can go anywhere and the Mass is always the same, and that’s normal, Sam thinks, or part of it. Besides, its sanctuary, the one place they can all relax, because nothing evil will ever be able to get them when they’re inside, when they’re praying and together and not hunting and being a family. 

After church they eat, and after lunch has settled, Dad takes them out to the east woods, hands them both weapons and tells them the course is ready, he expects perfect scores in twenty minutes or less. Sam grumbles, he hates running the course, always has, but Dean’s excited like he usually is, shifting from foot to foot, holding the knife correctly but too tightly, and that’s the one thing Sam doesn’t mind, the feel of a knife in his hand, weighted and balanced, honed and ready. Dad tells them to go and Dean takes off, fast but not reckless, and melts into the trees, and Sam breathes in the quiet before he does the same. 

When Sam emerges from the trees, Dean’s already done, finished first and it’s no surprise, but he’s only holding nineteen rags and looking ashamed and slightly hopeful, and Sam drops twenty-one rags at Dad’s feet before grabbing a water bottle. Dean’s pale but still standing when Dad finishes counting, and Dad shakes his head at both of them. “Dean missed one,” he says, “but you took too long, Sam,” and Sam’s about ready to scream though Dean just looks relieved when Dad says, “Two miles. When you both get back, we’ll spar.”

“Sammy,” Dean says when they’re out of the house’s range, but Sam speeds up and glares at the grass under his feet, says, “It’s _Sam_ , Dean, and I don’t want to hear it.” Dean lets him go and it’s almost perfect, except that he can hear Dean behind him, the thump-stomp of Dean’s sneakers hitting dirt, and the illusion of solitude is completely broken when Sam falters on a rock and Dean’s right there, asking if he’s okay. “I’m not a baby, Dean!” Sam shouts, and he feels slightly guilty when Dean backs off, hands raised, saying, “Just making sure, Sam. Sparring with Dad’ll be a bitch if you’re hurt.” Sam says, “I’m _fine_ ,” and starts running, and Dean is right next to him, keeping pace. 

Sam puts on a little speed when they get back to the house, but Dean follows and they both finish at the same time, turn the corner at the same moment. Dad’s there, waiting, and he tells Sam and Dean to take positions in the kata they’ve most recently learnt, something Caleb taught them a few months ago when they were all passing through Denver, the Winchesters tracking a black dog, Caleb hunting down some new crossbows. It’s just as good of a workout as anything they know, a good way to cool down after a run, and its non-contact, which means Sam’s not going to end up on his ass for at least half an hour. 

After the new form comes a run-through of their old ones, and they’re both dripping with sweat in a late May afternoon under the sun by the time Dad tells them it’s time to spar. Sam’s legs are aching, they feel like jello or as if they’re about to fall off, one or the other, but Dean looks fine and it drives Sam crazy, especially when he lands on the ground for the fifth time. “You’re not trying, Sam,” Dad says, and Sam’s grouchy and hot and irritable, so he smacks the hand Dean’s offering and pushes himself up, says, “Yes, sir, I _am_ ,” and Dad looks at him before saying, “Bring your Latin out here. Finish the chapter. Dean, come on,” and Sam’s promptly ignored or forgotten as Dean starts circling their Dad, focused on every move Dad makes. Sam scowls and goes inside, finds the Bruno text he was given for his birthday, and then sits on the back porch and tries to figure out how to translate some long-dead man’s ramblings on memory and why he should even care.


	2. The Liberal Sciences

They leave early Monday morning, the darkest part of the day, and Dad drives through Rosiclare, past the turn-off for the high school, and Sam’s not too tired to glower and ask, “Did you call the school and let them know?” and Dean cuts him off with a muffled, “Dork,” through Def Leppard so loud Sam can hear the words clearly in the back seat. “Dad?” Sam asks again, and his dad doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, until they’re on County Road 12 and Sam’s despairing about his GPA and colleges and his way out of this. “I’ll call, Sam,” Dad promises, and Sam mutters, “Yeah, right,” seeing big red ‘F’s on his report card already. “I said I will, and I will,” Dad says, eyes on Sam via the rear-view mirror, and Dean turns around, says with a grin, “Hey, I graduated. Dad knows what he’s doing,” and Sam’s hearing the underlying _Back off_ , so he crosses his arms, says, “Yeah, whatever,” once more for good measure, and looks out of the window, watching the hills slope into fields before he falls asleep.

\--

Sam wakes up somewhere near Galesburg and Dean’s driving, eyes focused on the road, Dad sleeping in the front passenger seat. He stretches and checks the clock, sees he’s been out for five hours, save the times he shifted, half-awake and bones popping, flat lands covered by acres of corn flying past the car. He’d be in lunch right now, eating an apple and listening to his friends make fun of their English teacher, joining in with the jokes every so often but content to just be there, part of a group, worried about the math test he’s supposed to be taking in half an hour. They’ll all think he’s sick or skipping the exam today, but when he’s not there tomorrow, what will they think happened? Will he still have a place with them when he _does_ get back, if _that_ ever happens?

“Stop,” Dean says, and Sam says, “What?” because Dean’s not even looking at him; “I’m not doing anything.” Dean snorts, then looks over at Dad before he says, “You’re thinking. I can hear it all the way up here. Just chill out, ‘kay?” and Sam says, “You’d be pissed, too, if he was leaving you with the babysitter,” and Dean laughs, says, “Yeah, I would. But you’re fifteen and Dad’s going after a clan of swamp-bred mud men and he barely even thinks I’m ready for this, so suck it up and enjoy the cushy life of luxury while you can.” Sam can’t really argue with that—staying with Pastor Jim will be a step or five up from what he’s used to and Dad might not be taking him along but he’s not going to be roughing it in the Florida swamps, now, either, Sam thinks. When Dean looks back, Sam nods reluctantly, and he can’t help smiling when Dean does, because Dean’s grin has contagious powers and Sam put that smile on his brother’s face. “Now, how fast do you think I can push this car before it wakes Dad up?” Dean asks, innocent smile on his face, the one that can still charm the socks off of grandma-types at truck-stop diners, and Sam can’t help but laugh. 

\--

They get to Blue Earth and the rectory after a steady thirteen-hour day in the car, no breaks except to gas up, Dean eating peanut M&Ms and Dad snacking on beef jerky and pretzels the whole way, Sam throwing an apple core out of the window every forty miles or so. Dad pulls the spare key out of a silver bucket filled with salt and sage and Holy Water, lets them in and the three walk through the pitch-black halls in silence, quiet as the shadows and manoeuvring around the sound-traps with practiced efficiency. Jim’s sitting in the kitchen, waiting for them, smile on his face and three steaming mugs on the table. Dean says, “How’d you know?” and takes one of the cups of coffee while Sam grabs the hot cocoa and leans against the counter. “Your car needs a tune-up,” Pastor Jim says, and the outraged look on Dean’s face makes Sam snort hot chocolate into his nose while his dad just takes the last mug and throws back the contents. 

Jim says, “I’ve made up the camp beds in the living room for you and Dean,” and Dad nods, leaves without a word, Dean following, though Dean turns back at the doorway and says, “Be good, Sammy. We’ll hurry back,” before leaving. Sam nods, fear choking him, because he doesn’t know if he’ll ever see his family again, doesn’t know if he’ll be alone after this like in so many of his nightmares, and no matter how many times they’ve left like this and come back, there’s always the possibility that next time, that this time, they won’t. 

“It’s easy to leave,” Jim says, and Sam’s eyes slide from the doorway to the man sitting at the kitchen table. “Much, much harder to stay behind. The better part of valour, sometimes,” and Sam doesn’t really know what to say to that. Jim must see this, because he smiles and gets up, puts his mug in the sink and runs some water in it before stopping in front of Sam and saying, “We’ve work of our own to do while they’re off chasing after overgrown clods of mud. Let’s try and get some sleep so we’re fresh,” and leads Sam to the guest room, leaves him there to sleep. Sam lays in the king size bed, an island in the middle of the large blankets and pile of sheets and quilts, alone in the bed that he and Dean have shared a thousand times before. He ends up staring at the ceiling until he hears the car start up and drive off, and then he closes his eyes and dreams of fire. 

\--

He’s not sure what wakes him up, but it’s instant and he’s reaching under the pillow for a weapon, instincts flaring and training taking over as his fist closes around a knife and he rolls out of the bed, crouching on the pads of his feet, out of sight. There’s no noise, no sounds out of the ordinary, but Sam doesn’t move, stays still and ready, waiting, and then he hears a shrill and sudden burst of laughter, like gunfire, coming from outside the window. Sam moves without thinking, flattening himself against the wall but still out of sight of the door, attention focused until he hears footsteps out in the hallway. The door opens and he relaxes, ready to fight and loosening his muscles to do so, when Pastor Jim says, “It’s all right, Sam,” and Sam doesn’t move, not until Jim sighs and says, “ _In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti_ ,” and Sam says, “Amen,” as he stands up, wary but trusting. 

Jim has a look in his eyes as if he’s figured something out. Sam doesn’t know what, and he slides the knife back under the pillow, standing up taller, his brother’s Metallica shirt too big but not too long on his lanky frame as he asks, “What’s outside?” posture at attention like Dad’s always trying to drum into him, but it comes naturally facing a priest and Sam doesn’t question Jim’s tone when he answers, “Mrs. McCarthy,” with a smile. “She cleans the church on Tuesdays,” and Sam nods. Jim says, “It’ll be lunch time soon,” and Sam’s almost gaping because he can’t remember the last time he slept so long when he hadn’t been out hunting with Dean and Dad the night before. “Why don’t you get cleaned up and come down to the kitchen, and we’ll work out a schedule for your time here,” Jim goes on, and leaves after Sam nods. 

He showers quickly in Jim’s rickety old tub, ancient and the pipes squeak, but the water’s hot and it gets him clean, helps chase away the last cobwebs of sleep. When he’s dressed and goes downstairs to the kitchen, Jim’s standing over a pot on the stove and there’s salad and bread already on the table. Jim points to a chair at the table with his wooden spoon and Sam sits down gingerly, waiting as the priest pours out two large bowls of stew, beef vegetable by the smell, and carries them over, sitting down as well. Sam bows his head as Jim prays over the food, crossing himself when Jim’s done, and starts eating without returning the gaze he can feel, heavy on his head. 

They eat in silence, sounds from the local playground drifting in through the window on the wind, and when they’re done, Jim wipes his mouth off and says, “Well, Sam,” with no little amount of fond kindness, and for the first time since this was brought up, Sam’s glad that Dad left him with Jim and not Caleb or Mattie. “John wants us to work on your Latin and keep you in shape, but what would you like to do while you’re here?” and Sam stares because he’s taken completely off-guard. ‘Keep Dad happy,’ he wants to say, but also, ‘Go back to school and pretend I never left,’ so he just shrugs and looks down at his empty bowl, carries it to the sink. “Well, if you think of something, you let me know,” Jim eventually says, and Sam shrugs again, says, “Yeah, okay,” and after the dishes are done and lunch is cleaned up, they go through the church and into Jim’s office, one wall filled floor to ceiling with old books kept in good condition, loved and used. Hardly any of them are in English. 

“John said you’ve been having a lot of demons lately,” and Sam nods, tells him about the last few, how they resisted the more common and straightforward exorcisms, how he couldn’t finish the entire ritual half the time, and it’s like confession, telling Jim how he needs to get better, how dad’s counting on him to learn so next time it’ll be easier, and when he falls silent, Jim says, “We’ll start working with the more esoteric rituals, then. Get you used to the rhythm so you can improvise when you have to.” The priest stands up, looks over his books and nods once or twice before pulling out a hardbound book, the cover embedded with salt and embossed by crosses, and Sam takes it reverently, runs fingers down the binding. “Most of history believes that the _Ars Notoria_ is fiction, or lost, or from the seventeenth century,” Jim says, and Sam’s head darts up, pupils wide as he measures how serious Jim is and then holds the book even more carefully, opens it and studies the title page.

“We know better. The Order has several copies left, scattered in parishes around the world for safekeeping. You can start with that one, and we’ll go from there,” and Sam’s trying to decide how to ask, so he just does, says, “Isn’t starting with the _Ars Notoria_ a bit overkill?” and Jim laughs. “Not when you see the other books,” he says, and Sam eyes the bookshelves speculatively before nodding. “I have to work on my homily for the mid-week Mass. Can you read comfortably in here?” Sam shifts in the chair but says, “Yeah. Better than the woods,” and begins to turn pages while Jim’s scratching out a sermon across the room, fifteen-year-old lips mouthing words written three thousand years ago. 

\--

_Quod antequam aliquis incipiat, legere, siue proferre aliquas orationes istius artis pro efficacia, istam orationem semper primò proferat in initio reuerenter et deuotè._


	3. Magical Operations

He finishes the first two chapters, mind spinning and a list of notes and questions next to him. Jim’s engrossed in his work, so Sam places a bookmark in the _Ars Notoria_ to hold the chapter and slips out of the office, wandering back to the sanctuary, cleansing himself with Holy Water and ignoring the brief flare of pain that brings, genuflecting before he slides, silent, into a row and kneels to pray. The safety of Dean and Dad is his first request, a familiar one after all these years, followed by a prayer for his mother, a plea for all that she represents to come back to their lives, things like safety and normality and forgetting all of those things that no one else sees or wants to admit to seeing, and then he prays for a way out, and forgiveness, and hope, and sits in the silence when he is done, eyes closed and head bowed.

Movement behind him but he isn’t afraid, because this is _sanctuary_ , and then Pastor Jim’s hand on his shoulder, warm and heavy weight, almost comforting, as Jim sits down. Sam realises, in that moment, hearing Jim’s knees and ankles crack, that Jim’s getting old, old or tired, but worn-out nonetheless, and it hits him, not for the first time, that he’s never met a hunter older than Jim. Bobby’s younger, his dad’s younger, Caleb’s younger still, and if this is the only life he has to look forward to, he’ll be dead by the time he graduates high school, because he’s not even close to the level these guys work at, not fast enough, not strong enough, not good enough, and he’s scared and bitter and thankful all at once, because it means he _has_ to get out if he wants to live. 

“Sorry,” Sam says, not meaning it, and Jim must hear that because he laughs, sound echoing throughout the cruciform building; “I didn’t want to bother you,” and Jim says, “It’s all right, Sam. Your dad, he said you like spending time in church.” Sam hears the question underneath the statement so he nods slowly, wondering if this is some sort of test and then kicking himself for caring when Jim smiles. “Working for the Order is good in itself, but parish work is its own reward,” Jim says, and Sam listens, thinks maybe he gets it, but doesn’t know what the priest’s thinking when Jim asks, “What are the seven sacraments, Sam?” so he just answers, falling into the catechism he’s been taught by a handful of different priests in different cities. “The sacraments of Baptism, Confirmation, the Eucharist, Ordination, Confession, Anointing of the Sick, and Matrimony,” and Jim nods, leaning forward and eyes focused on the crucifix above the altar, Sam following that gaze, seeing the way the candleholders seem to shimmer in light stained red from the sun streaming through glass high above. 

“The sacrament of Baptism, Sam. Tell me about that,” and Sam’s missing something here, missing something big, but he just narrows his eyes and answers. “Baptism is the sacrament _per aquam in verbo_ and comes from the Jewish tradition of _mikvah_ outlined in the Tanakh, renewed by Christ when John baptised Him in the Jordan. The catechism teaches us that Holy Baptism is the basis of the whole Christian life, _vitae spiritualis ianua_ , and the door which gives access to the other sacraments. Through Baptism we are freed from sin and reborn as sons of God; we become members of Christ, are incorporated into the Church and made sharers in her mission.”

Sam goes on, tracing out the paths of the catechism, another part of his mind thankful that he’s always been better at this, memorization and recitation, than Dean, and when he finishes, the echo of his words fades like the spirit of an acceptable offering in the silence. Jim nods but doesn’t say anything, not for long minutes while Sam’s mind is racing, trying to fit things together but coming up empty-handed, too many pieces of the puzzle still missing, no idea what he’s even supposed to be figuring out, just that the questions, they’re too out-of-place, too insistent to ignore, and even if Dad’s had to fight to get him to learn anything, Sam’s at least able to sense when someone’s trying to be evasive or sneaky or pretend. “Why don’t you go for a run?” Jim says, and Sam nods, leaves the church, changes, and goes outside, feet taking him down a path that they remember though his eyes register the changes. 

There’s a new subdivision going up, a few houses in various stages of construction, one with three walls, one with a poured concrete basement, one almost done but waiting yet for windows, the show home near the front, finished but vaguely ominous, thanks to its emptiness, its sterility, the too-perfect flowers. Sam keeps his eyes on the house as he jogs past the new road, breathes deep when he hits cornfields. The dirt’s still visible, the plants only a few inches tall, which is probably why he sees a strange pile of rocks in the middle of one field, and that sense of something wrong is back, like how he felt when he woke up, the hairs on his arms standing straight up as he slows down, looks around. No one’s nearby, so Sam moves down the ridge between two rows of corn, silently walking up to the mound of rocks, studying them from a safe distance. Now that he’s closer, he sees it’s not as haphazard as he thought it was, noticing it from the road; these rocks were stacked by design, interlocked in narrowing circles the higher it reaches, and a circle ten feet around the mound is empty, looks like it’s been combed clear of rocks and anything green. Sam crouches down and smells the dirt, then freezes, because someone’s there and laughing. Cursing himself for being so stupid, preparing himself to run, trying desperately not to think of what Dad would have to say about this situation, Sam stands up slowly and looks around. He’s alone. 

Sam casts one more look at the mound, then takes off, sprinting the whole way back to the church. He doesn’t bother cooling down, just runs into the sanctuary before he stops, bends over, panting. Jim’s there almost instantly, Sam’s not sure if Jim was in the church or his office, but his heart’s racing from more than the run. “Sam?” Jim asks, and Sam shakes his head and says, “Running, old route. There’s a mound in the middle of a field,” and Jim’s face just shuts down. “You saw the dolmen,” he says, and Sam frowns, says, “What? Like fairies?” because he’s pretty well-versed in supernatural lore but the fae are European, not something he’d have to worry about here, and Jim nods, just once, like Dad gets when he’s hunting, and it makes Sam want to laugh. “You’re kidding,” he says, ignoring the plea underneath his words. “Fae? Here?” and Jim says, “Why do you think the Order assigned me to Blue Earth?” and there’s not really a response to that. 

Jim takes Sam over to the rectory, sits Sam down in the kitchen and puts a glass of water on the table. “Tell me what happened,” Jim says, and Sam recognises it for the command it is, explains about how he woke up, what he felt, tells Jim about the laughter and how there was someone _there_ that he didn’t see or that left by the time he screwed up the courage to stand. Jim moves from where he’s been leaning against the refrigerator, looks out the window when Sam’s finished and doesn’t say anything, so Sam says, haltingly, “I don’t know how to hunt the fae. Dad never said we’d need to, but iron works in the legends, doesn’t it? Iron and a consecration of the gates to the Otherworld. Is that, would that work?” and Jim exhales. Sam sees the priest’s fingers turn white, clenching the edges of the counter, and almost misses it when Jim murmurs, “Not this clan,” and Sam learns more about the fae than he ever wanted to know in the next two hours, everything from clans and courts to hierarchies and gifts to dolmens and glamours, and somewhere in all of that, another piece of the puzzle clicks into place. 

\--

Sam starts the next day with a run, on the other side of town, away from the dolmen, but he gets random shivers every so often as if one of the fae is watching him. When he’s miles away from the church, surrounded by nothing but fields and the wide expense of sky above, he hears the same high, ringing tinkles of laughter from the day before, hears it and immediately turns around and heads for the church, one hand clutching a rosary, skin pale as there’s a quick-light image in his peripheral vision. Prayers and litanies start running through his head, all in Latin, and the rosary swings from his hand, glass beads refracting a ring of safety around him as he hightails is back to town. 

When there are houses around him, people coming and going, he slows down, the feeling of being watched stopping at the edge of town. Instead of going to the church, Sam walks to the rectory, entering the kitchen through the back door and laying out a triple line of salt at the threshold. Jim’s not there, so Sam gets a glass of water, sips it while he makes toast, looks out of the window as if he’ll be able to see the dolmen through houses and bushes, trees and miles of space. The toast burns but Sam doesn’t notice, swallowing the bread mechanically, and when he’s done, he’s still standing there, not moving, empty cup in one hand, empty plate on the counter, a smattering of blackened crumbs laying around the plate. He’s waiting for Dean to be done in the shower for a few minutes before he remembers that Dean’s off hunting mud men with Dad halfway across the country and feels loneliness and envy both, so he goes upstairs and cleans off, as if he can wash away the stain of his family, of his history, but when he’s done he’s still Sam, still a Winchester, and all he’s done is leave his skin a raw, aching red that matches how he feels inside, worried and angry and hateful and afraid, so much and so many things it almost hurts to breathe. 

\--

He tells Jim later, when they’re both in Jim’s office, Jim writing a letter to his Order, Sam ostensibly reading the next sections of the _Ars Notoria_ , about the laughter today, about the fae he thinks he saw, when the words are blurring on the page and Latin’s running together in his mind, just comes out and says, “I think I saw one of them today.” Jim stops writing, looks up, says, “I thought I told you not to run out by the mound,” and Sam’s heard that same underlying thread of anger in his dad’s voice too much to not get instantly defensive, to say, “I didn’t. I went out on the other side of town. I felt them watching, though, and then the laugh. When I turned to come back, I think I saw one out of the corner of my eyes,” and Jim sets the pen down like it takes effort, and Sam sees that Jim’s holding that pen so tight that his fingers are blue. “You had the rosary,” Jim says, and at Sam’s nod, Jim moves up from behind his desk and stands in front of Sam, says, “You were _holding_ it?” Sam says, “Yeah,” wondering what’s going on, even more confused and cautious when Jim says, “Let me see your hand.” Sam looks down at the fingers holding open the _Ars Notoria_ , the curve of his palm around the hard cover, then holds it out and Jim studies his hand, traces over Sam’s skin with a feather-light touch, making goose-bumps chase one another down Sam’s spine. “What’s going on?” Sam asks, words little more than a whisper, and he tells himself it’s because Jim’s standing right there, that he doesn’t need to be any louder. Jim looks at Sam, eyes meeting eyes, and Jim says, carefully, “I can’t be sure.” Sam’s eyes narrow as he asks, “But you think you know,” and when Jim nods, Sam’s fitting another piece into the puzzle. 

If there’s been a more consistent non-relative in his life than Jim, Sam can’t think of one. They come up to Blue Earth, him and Dean and Dad, at least twice a year, and Sam’s spent birthdays and Hallowe’ens here, in this church, this house, since he can remember, before he was allowed to go hunting with his dad and brother or stay alone in a motel room while they locked him in and promised to be home by sunrise. Sam’s thinking about the last time they were here when his mind stops, backtracks to the thought of birthdays and Hallowe’ens, always his but never Dean’s, never Dad’s, and Hallowe’en _is_ only two days before his half-birthday, so what the hell’s going on here? 

Sam’s opening his mouth to ask, but Jim shakes his head, takes two steps back and cocks his head, and though Sam knows that Jim’s a lethal hunter, he’s never seen that intensity, that focus, directed his way. It’s unnerving, to say the least, especially when Jim tells Sam to recite the exorcisms he knows, a repetition of the Lord’s Prayer between each one. “I’m not possessed,” Sam whispers, eyes wide. “I wouldn’t have been able to walk through the church,” and Jim says, “Do it,” tone making Sam flinch and start saying the prayers, one after the other, the standard rites he grew up hearing and the variations learned after. The rhythm, the cadence, is calming, soothes Sam, and he forgets about Jim, forgets why he’s repeating words older than the country, falls into their history instead, dives into the mountains of faith and the valleys of fear and doubt, the depths and heights of the heart that these words hold like jewels, crossing himself and bowing where he’s been taught to, head thrown back in the direction of heaven when he can, as if he might see the face of God. 

When he’s done, he smiles, savours the moment, and then opens his eyes and sees tear-tracks on Jim’s cheeks, the priest’s gaze still on Sam. Jim nods, a shaky movement, and Sam’s smile feels deeper than his skin, and it’s only when he shifts that sharp pain drives through his peace like a knife into his head. The smile falters and Sam looks down, sees the rosary in his hand and the faint purple-licked edges of a bruise forming under the cross, stares at the cracked beads and the slivers of glass in his fingers, and murmurs, “I’m not possessed. I can say the name of God and walk in His house,” very quietly, as his stomach heaves. He gags but nothing comes up, and then he’s looking up at Jim, eyes wide and pleading, and Jim doesn’t say anything, just moves to sit down and does so heavily, as if his legs are giving out, before he buries his face in his hands and sobs. Sam watches for a few minutes, then gets up and goes to the house, passing through the church and wards and salt without hesitation, to the bathroom, to remove the glass splinters from his hand.


	4. Inexplicable Oration

When he’s done, Sam bandages his hand, ignoring the wave of irritated half-pain as the cotton gauze grazes the cuts, presses against the bruised skin. It makes him think of all the times he’s touched something like Holy Water and felt it sting his fingertips, held a crucifix and passed off the sharp, stabbing pain as adrenaline, every time he’s stumbled in the middle of an exorcism for more reasons than whatever the demon’s saying or doing. He thinks of how _angry_ he is all the time, how desperately he longs to leave this life behind him, and now he’s wondering if his sheer utter need for normality is really his, really normal, and he wants to hurt something, wants to empty eight clips and track a deer and maybe put a fucking stake through a vampire’s heart, if vampires were real or whatever. 

He walks down to the kitchen and finds it empty, so he goes out into the back garden and practices his forms, motions choppy and disconnected thanks to this urge to scream and cry that’s boiling up through his veins like fire, and he wants to ignore everything, especially the pain in his hand, ignore it and curl into a ball and _die_ because he can’t deal with this, not at all, and so he leaves, runs out of the garden, out of the neighbourhood, out of the town like man possessed, and the irony of that apparently _being true_ just makes him run more, run harder, trying to exorcise him _self_ through the pounding of his feet on cement, the burn in his muscles, the sweat rolling off of him like rainwater. 

He runs, he doesn’t know for how long or where to, until he’s gasping for breath and crying, bent over with his back to a tree as he screams once, twice. “Such a loud voice for such a little mortal,” some woman says, and Sam snaps his head up, eyes widening for a flicker of infinity before they narrow and he spits at the fae’s feet in answer. “And rude, as well,” she says, “but refreshing nonetheless. What’s your name, child?” and even if Sam hadn’t listened to a two-hour lecture yesterday, he still knows enough to answer, “Something you’ll never find out,” answering like Dean would, trying to be brave like Dean, when he’s terrified and tired and trying to deal with things way beyond his capability. She laughs, that same pealing laughter he’s heard before, and then glimmers away into nothing, ‘til Sam’s alone, but not lost, because there’s a dolmen in the field across the road, the same one that started this whole mess, which is eerily convenient because he knows the way back now but thought he’d run farther than that. Sam’s not about to turn a gift like that down, though, so he starts a slow jog back to Blue Earth, wiping tears off of his face while he runs. 

\--

Jim’s waiting when Sam gets back to the rectory, sitting on the porch and looking worried, which is just fine with Sam because usually his dad looks pissed when Sam leaves for any length of time without telling anyone and then it’s more running, sparring, training. Jim just asks, “Better?” and Sam shrugs a reply, following Jim inside to the kitchen and dinner. They eat in silence, until Jim finally says, “I’m sorry, Sam,” and it sounds like a death sentence. Sam puts his fork down, suddenly not the slightest bit hungry, and Jim goes on. “I should have made you stay. We’re going to talk about this. I, you need to know, Sam, to understand some of the choices your father’s made to keep you safe,” and Sam’s suddenly angry, just full of pained rage, because it can’t ever be about him when it should be; it’s always his father, always, ‘Sam, don’t be so selfish,’ always ‘Why can’t you understand?’ and it’s pissing him off. “So tell me,” Sam says, tone and gesture fuck-you dare, and Jim raises one eyebrow but soon looks away, and Sam wants to glory in that little triumph, but Jim’s talking, then, and the pieces of this mystery, this puzzle, are clicking together almost too fast to keep up with. 

His mother died above him, while he was in his crib and her blood dripped down, didn’t touch him but still covered him, a demon’s sacrifice to evil, to the darkness, and an answer from that evil, back to the demon. _The lamb is pure_ , Sam thinks, his mother a perfect sacrifice, so the fire came and swallowed her, while he laid next to her blood. She was the sacrifice and he was the recipient, and he had been baptised with her blood, covered by her blood, _changed_ by her blood. But Jim had baptised him in church, here, in Blue Earth, when he was a week old, and Sam isn’t evil, is human, not possessed, but is living too close to the supernatural to _not_ have both aspects of his nature, both baptisms, exert their own toll on him. He can say the exorcisms, but not without issue in the presence of evil, he can walk into church and cross himself with Holy Water, but not without a sting, he can recite the Lord’s Prayer and mean it, but not, apparently, without a rosary attacking what isn’t pure. 

It makes Sam’s head spin to think of it, makes him sit there in silence until the only thing he can think to say is, “Dad knows?” Jim sighs, and his eyes don’t move from the empty mug in between his hands. “He wonders, sometimes. It’s never been an issue, I don’t, he wonders. Especially lately, with the exorcisms. Since you haven’t been able to finish one. It was so random, we don’t know why the demon came after your family, and we’ve watched you, Sam. But there’s no difference between you and any other fifteen-year-old. There was never any sign, and we thought that maybe being baptised in the church first made a difference, might make you more aware of evil but not a part of it, just increase your sensitivity. We just don’t know.” Sam thinks about that, and then, very deliberately, asks, “If I hadn’t been baptised before, what would have happened?” and Jim looks up at him and says, “Maybe nothing. But that kind of mark, it means something. Things will be interested in you,” and Sam immediately says, “The fae.” Jim frowns, asks, “Again?” and Sam can only nod and say, “She talked to me, asked me my name. I didn’t tell her,” he adds before Jim can ask. “She called me a, a little mortal, then just left. Disappeared into thin air.” Jim sighs again, rubs his forehead and looks old and tired, and Sam, yeah, Sam gets that, too. 

\--

Jim gives him a book after dinner, a little one, bigger than pocket-sized but not by much, takes it from one of the drawers in the kitchen and lays it down in front of Sam, stands over Sam’s shoulder while Sam opens it, says, “This isn’t Latin,” and Jim says, “No, it’s French.” Sam waits a beat, then two, three, for the punch line or some sort of explanation, but nothing comes, so he looks over his shoulder and says, “I don’t speak French.” Jim nods, says, “But you have a good head for language and you’ll appreciate Pascal. We’ve got time for me to teach you what you need to know and I’ve got a spare dictionary lying around somewhere.” Sam thinks that over, then turns to look back at the book, and Jim adds, “You’ll like Pascal, Sam. He was a precocious child, much like yourself, and an avid source of information for hunters in his day, helping them with the rites of blessing, protection, and exorcism. _Section cent quatre-vingt-dix trois_ ,” and Jim’s hands cover Sam’s to turn to the right section. 

Sam’s eyes skitter over the page, the French, and he thinks that maybe it won’t be so hard to learn the language, if the Latin carries over, listening to Jim as the priest reads and then translates to English, and Sam’s not too far off in his guesses. “’ _…without knowing to which of these states I shall be forever assigned. Such is my state, full of weakness and uncertainty_ ,’” and Sam thinks about that, how absolutely hopeless it is, until Jim’s saying, “ _For the Christian faith goes mainly to establish these two facts: the corruption of nature, and redemption by Jesus Christ,_ ” and Sam, after all that he’s been punched in the face with today, thinks _Yes_ , and vows to read the entire book as soon as he can.

Jim’s hands linger on Sam’s, not threatening or unwanted, more like the comforting touch of a father, something that Sam thinks his dad might have done with Dean before his mother died, and he blurts out, “Jim? I’m, I want this to stop. To be over,” and Jim’s hold tightens for a moment before he squeezes and then Jim backs away. “We’ll finish it,” Jim says, and Sam ignores the doubt, pretends that Jim’s soft tone is a promise and not a prayer. “Tomorrow, go for your run when you wake up, and we’ll spend the rest of the day in our books.” Jim ruffles Sam’s hair, and as he walks out of the kitchens, he adds, “Don’t leave town tomorrow,” and then Sam’s alone. 

He stares off into space for a while, trying to organise his thoughts, but soon realises that’s a hopeless cause, so he picks up Pascal and starts slogging through the first ten points, guessing at the meanings of each word. It’s a better way to spend the next hour, and once he’s had enough, he goes upstairs, washes off, and goes to bed. 

\--

His dream starts off like it always does, nothing but fire, cool burnt burgundy and warm ice-yellow flames licking at him, at the edges of his dream-vision, filling all the space between, and these dreams are like the Mass, like the sound of his feet hitting concrete, like Dean and Dad, one of the few constants in his life. Sometimes, when he’s awake, he wonders why he always dreams of fire, if he should be worried that it comforts him, this entity, this thing that took his mother away, that puts spirits and creatures to rest, and tomorrow he’ll think that maybe he should tell Jim about the dreams, see if it’s a side-effect of the blood baptism, but tonight he relaxes and lets the fire flood over him, warm and comforting. 

Then the dream changes. There’s movement within the fire, flames darting out in patterns he’s never seen here before and they form into the shape of a woman. When they coalesce and shift colour, glimmering through the spectrum, he tenses and tries to move away. The fae laughs, a high noise that makes his skin crawl, and says, “Well, now,” and Sam hisses at her when she steps forward. “A surprise, but not much of one,” she continues, and then, “I could take it all away, child. Give you back to normality.” That makes Sam freeze, and before he can stop himself, he’s asking, “How?” She smiles and says, “Come find me tomorrow, and don’t bother with your little protections. They have no effect on my clan and they only end up hurting you. Come find me, little one,” she says, and then leans down and kisses his forehead before exploding in a burst of flame, and Sam wakes up, heart racing, a knife clutched in his hand and no idea how it got there. 

The window’s open, he doesn’t remember opening it before he went to bed, thought it was locked, and as he gets up to close it, he hears laughter outside, floating up in the still air. He shivers, latches the window and layers the sill with consecrated iron, and gets back into bed. It takes a while before he can close his eyes for more than a panic-filled minute, even longer before he’s relaxed enough to sleep. When he dreams, there’s fire and a fae’s laughter, and when he wakes again, time after time after time in a night that seems never-ending, the laughter follows. 

\--

He wakes up, every muscle tense, sure for a moment that he smells smoke, but there’s nothing else in the room, save the sunlight streaming in through the open window. He calms down, smelling the morning air, hints of rain, but then he remembers his dream, remembers closing the window in the middle of the night, remembers the fae and her laughing command, _Come find me_. As Sam gets dressed, pulling on sweats and sneakers, a t-shirt, he weighs the choice, to find the fae or ignore her at all costs, to do what Jim said and stay in town or disobey and leave, and he still hasn’t made up his mind when he’s outside, stretching and warming up. 

There are a few people out when he starts his run and they smile at him, watch him, and Sam’s skin is crawling, wondering if each person here can see what he is, if they know what’s been done to him. He runs faster, through the subdivisions, up and down the grid of streets, and stops when he’s back at the west edge of town, the church one block south, the field with the dolmen one mile straight ahead. Sam looks in the direction of the church, then starts jogging out of Blue Earth, laughter spurring him on, feeling the press of dreamed lips lingering on his forehead. 

He slows down three times on the way to the field, looking over his shoulder and debating if he should go back, but each time he shakes his head, squares his shoulders, and keeps going. The corn brushes his calves as he steps lightly into and through the field, approaching the mound of rocks and the woman—the fae—leaning against them. She’s watching him like the people were, but her gaze is more predatory, deeper and hungrier, like a wendigo or a vengeful spirit, as if he’s food, and that makes him stop, still in the field, and watch her, wary and sure now that he shouldn’t have done this, but it’s too late now, and damn, his dad’s going to _kill_ him. 

“You really want to fit in, little one?” the fae asks, blonde hair blowing over her face in a breeze Sam can’t feel as he nods, and she sighs, “Oh, child,” as if he’s hurt her, but that’s ridiculous, because he’s the one who feels numb, cracked and splintered. “I can help, somewhat, for now, but little one, it will never leave you. I can make it a warning, for when you are close to breaking, but two such powerful hands on you,” she trails off, and he’s got to be imagining those tears gleaming in her eyes, because she’s fae and he’s mortal and she’s been haunting him, in a way, ever since he woke up in Blue Earth. “Child, I might be from the clan of the _taisch_ , but I am not more powerful than the One God, not when you believe in Him so strongly.”

Sam wants to cry but won’t let himself, so he says, voice thankfully even, “You said you could help,” and the distress is gone from her body, or perhaps hidden, as she pushes off of the dolmen and stalks toward him, around him, and eventually faces him. “And I will,” she purrs, “for a price.” Sam doesn’t step back, but he leans away from her, crosses his arms on his chest, and asks, wary, “Which is?” She smiles, says, “Three drops of your blood and five minutes of your breath,” and Sam’s trying to think, to remember, but he can’t; it’s something that Jim had mentioned in that conversation over dinner two days ago, talking about the fae. Before he can say anything, though, she’s stepping back, away from him, and there are other legs brushing through the corn. Sam turns to look and thinks, _Busted_ , because Jim’s there and looking angrier than Sam’s ever seen him look before. 

Jim spits out something in a language Sam doesn’t recognise and the fae hisses, backing up, though this time in pain, and Sam’s not sure of anything except that everyone needs to calm down so he can think. “Jim,” he says, “please,” and Jim shakes his head, eyes still on the fae. “Get out of the way, Sam,” and Sam doesn’t move, asks, instead, “Three drops of blood and five minutes of breath. What does that mean?” and that, as out of place as it seems, makes Jim pause and look at him. “We’re bargaining,” Sam says, “and that’s what she wants. What does it mean?” and Jim looks confused, looks at the fae who’s standing there, waiting. At the priest’s glance, she sneers delicately and says, “What, _priest_? Some of us would rather not surround ourselves with the blind,” and Jim nods, as if that makes sense, and Sam’s ready to scream if someone doesn’t explain things to him in the next ten seconds, but all Jim says is, “And his will work?” like he’s finally listening, and Sam growls. 

The fae looks at him and smiles, as if she’s holding back laughter. “Oh, little one. I just want to go home,” and Sam can feel the weight of her longing like a physical presence, words washing over him like a flood and leaving him drenched in the ache of a homesickness he’s only scratched the surface of. Sam says, “All right,” before he can think about it, before the feeling of loneliness stains him completely, and Jim says, exasperated, “ _Sam_ ,” at the same time the fae says, “Deal, and done.”

With Jim standing there, the fae faces Sam and cradles his cheeks in her hands, looking into his eyes. “The power of your faith, child, will hold you safe until you are close to breaking, for the demons chasing you wait for your distress like a traveller waits for a door to open in the rain. Then there shall be a sign, a reaction to the tools of your belief and craft.” Her eyes grow distant for a moment, then, as if she’s looking years beyond him, and in a low whisper he has to strain to hear, she adds, “One day, child, it will boil out of your very bones and burn through you, and you will learn to accept the burdens of your gifts and curses.” Sam frowns, opens his mouth to ask what’s going on, but she breathes on him, over him, and he closes his eyes and shudders at the feeling of being scrubbed clean deep into his heart and soul and mind, and he sways on his feet, only the pressure of her fingers against his cheekbones and the feeling of Jim’s hand at the small of his back keeping him upright. 

“You know what to do, priest of the One God?” she asks, and Jim nods, steps back, says, “When should Sam,” trailing off as the fae smiles. “When will you send me home, child?” she asks Sam, and Sam doesn’t want her to go, doesn’t want to lose the way she makes him feel now that he’s been changed or cleansed, all long-limbed and heavy blooded, but he thinks, _Misericordia_ , and says, “Now, if you’d like.” Her smile grows wider and she reaches out to run a finger down the line of his jaw. “Accepted and done,” she murmurs, and her fingernail digs in on the side of his neck, spilling three drops of blood to the air. 

Sam drops to his knees and screams, and the dolmen shakes, a little hint of movement at first, but he keeps screaming and the tremors increase in length and power, until the fae turns insubstantial and melts into the rocks. ‘ _I am taische fae_ ,’ he hears in his head, over and under the sound of his screams. ‘ _If you ever meet one of my clan again, tell them about me and they will help you, because you are honourable and kind, child. My name, my name,_ ’ he hears as the rocks fall and turn to dust, ‘ _is Eilidh, and I thank you._ ’ Wind carries the powdered remains of the dolmen away as Sam stops screaming, tilting face-first into the ground and unable to move. He feels, he’s not sure how he feels, especially when Jim kneels next to him and asks. Sam can only smile and murmur, “ _In nomine, Iesu_ ,” before he passes out.


	5. Virtue and Devotion

He wakes up in bed, the king-size bed in the rectory’s guest room, and Jim’s sitting on a chair next to the bed, reading. The room’s bright and the glare makes him groan; he’s got a blinding headache and his neck itches. Jim puts the book down, hands Sam two aspirin and a glass of water, and after Sam’s swallowed both, Jim asks, “How do you feel?” Sam sits up, runs over the aches and pains he feels, cataloguing them like Dad taught him and Dean years ago. “Headache, pretty bad but not awful,” he says, “and my neck itches,” and he lifts a hand in order to scratch his neck but then pauses, studies the palm that he remembers wrapping in gauze, looks at the clear, unblemished skin. “What did she tell you?” Jim asks, and it takes Sam a moment to process the question and word a response. “She said the power of my faith will hold me,” he says, voice filled with wonder and sadness, because he’s never had a prayer answered like this, though it takes him one more step away from normal, doesn’t it, to be given the chance of normality by a fae? _No one else has to know,_ he thinks, and he has to ask Jim to repeat the question Jim just asked. “What else did she say?” and Sam doesn’t know what Jim means, frowns, confused, and Jim sighs but drops it, says, “Go back to sleep, Sam. When you feel better, we’ll test what she did. And, just for the record? That was a very stupid, very irresponsible thing to do.”

After Jim leaves and Sam settles back into the pillows, burrowing in the big pile of quilts, he thinks that, yes, it was very stupid, but it’s also given him a chance, taken away the things inside of him that made him different, that made him dangerous. As he’s half-asleep and falling fast, he thinks that maybe he’s forgetting something she said, that the name of her clan is important for some reason, but then he soars into dreams of flame and the thread of almost-there-memory burns to ash. 

\--

It’s still light when Sam wakes up again and walks unsteadily to the window. The sun’s almost directly overhead and still bright enough to make him wince, but his headache’s settled a little and he stops in the bathroom before going downstairs. When he’s washing his hands, he looks into the mirror above the sink and stops, because the face looking back at him doesn’t feel like his anymore. He lifts one hand and touches fingertips to his cheekbone, watching as his reflection does the same, water running down both mirrored and real arms and dripping onto his shirt and the sink. He feels heavier, like his bones have somehow gained density, but he feels lighter as well, as if a weight he’s been carrying is gone, but most of all, he feels right in a way he can’t ever remember feeling before, comfortable in his skin like everything fits. 

It makes him smile at Jim when he goes downstairs and downs a glass of orange in five gulps, both of his hands unblemished and whole, makes him grin at the world in general in a way he hasn’t for a long time, and everything is good, like he could go out and do anything he wanted, like he can be himself. He eats three pieces of toast and his throat stings a little, but he’s fine, he’s flying, and when Jim asks, dryly, “I take it you’re feeling better?” Sam laughs and says, “Yes, sir.”

They make their way into the church shortly after and Jim puts Sam through every test he can think of and then some, everything from Holy Water and the Host to complicated rituals from the Greater Key of King Solomon, and Sam passes them all. Nothing hurts him, nothing fazes him, he can recite every prayer without reaction, and when Jim can’t think of anything else, he gathers Sam up in his arms and sobs, clinging to Sam so hard, so tightly, that Sam has trouble breathing. That night, after sandwiches for dinner, Jim renews Sam’s baptism and the water sprinkled on Sam’s forehead feels like cleansing, like celebration, like second chances and a hope for the future. 

\--

It’s hard for Sam, the next morning, to think that it’s only Friday, that he’s only really been in Blue Earth for three days and that so much has happened, his life ruined one day and put back to rights the next. He goes for a run and nothing happens except that he returns to the rectory drenched in sweat and aching, and when he practices his kata in the back garden, Jim watching and offering advice, his movements are all rhythmic and flow from one pose to the next, from one form to the next, his eyes closed and his mind quiet. They’re inside city limits, so they can’t practice with the guns, but Jim sets up a target and Sam throws knives and uses one of Jim’s old flatbows, following the drills Dad uses. When he’s done, he sits down and sharpens and polishes the knives, replaces the arrowheads and smoothes the fletching on the arrows, and he and Jim talk about what Sam’s read in the _Ars Notoria_ , debate questions and philosophy and dogma for an hour. 

Lunch is light and quick, after Sam showers, and then he and Jim move to the office and read for the rest of the afternoon and the early part of the evening, Sam devouring the _Ars Notoria_ and Jim picking through texts, looking for something Sam doesn’t know about and doesn’t want to know about. A late dinner, early to bed, and that becomes the routine for the next week, interrupted only by the Masses Jim leads, one trip out into the county for target practice with a few of the semiautomatic pistols, Mrs McCarthy cleaning on Tuesday, and a phone call from Dean on Wednesday. 

The phone in the office rings when Sam and Jim are putting away their books for the night, Jim’s a treatise on holy sigils, Sam’s a copy of the _Pseudomonarchia Daemonum_ , and Jim answers. He smiles at first, then frowns and gives the phone to Sam, who says, “Hello?” a little hesitantly, but grins widely when Dean says, “Hey, Sammy,” and replies, “It’s Sam, you jerkface.” Dean must be tired, because he lets that go, doesn’t say anything, and Sam’s smile falters as he asks, “Dean? What’s wrong?” Sam can hear murmuring on the other end, says, “Dean?” and Dean says, “Dad got a little banged up, Sammy. We’re gonna be stopping at Caleb’s on the way up to Blue Earth, just to make sure I’ve got everything patched up, but we’re going to try and be there Saturday or Sunday, okay?” 

Sam feels like he’s having trouble breathing, “How bad is it?” he asks, because they only ever stop at Caleb’s when it’s bad news and Sam’s better at sewing Dad up than Dean, but Dean says, “Just a few stitches, but we need more ammo too, and we’ve called Caleb, he’s got some extra he can sell us cheap,” and Sam breathes out through his noise and nods before he realises that Dean can’t see him. “Okay. Just, drive safe,” and Dean’s all right, has to be, because he laughs and says, “Yes, grandma,” and hangs up. Sam holds the phone to his ear until the dial tone comes back, and then gives it to Jim, who asks with a raised eyebrow what’s going on. Sam tells him and Jim nods, sends Sam to the kitchen to get dinner started, and as Sam leaves, he sees Jim pick up the phone and start dialling. 

Sam has trouble falling asleep that night. He gives up around eleven and creeps downstairs, sits on the front porch with his knives and a whetstone for company, slowly sharpening the blades but more often just staring out across the street, thinking about everything, nothing, and what, if anything, he should tell Dean and Dad about what’s happened here in Blue Earth while they’ve been getting their asses handed to them by mud men. The moon’s bright, low and ripe in the sky, two days until it’s full and more than enough light to see by, even without the streetlamps and the few houses with their outdoor lights left on overnight. He’ll leave it to Jim to talk to Dad, Sam has no idea what they’ve said to each other over the years and even less of an idea what he could say to Dad that wouldn’t end up with Dad trying to exorcise him or something. Dean, Sam doesn’t know how to deal with, if Dad’s said anything about this to his brother or if Dean’s somehow guessed that things aren’t right, because he knows Dean isn’t as stupid as he tries to play off as being. 

He’s pulled from his thoughts when one of the lamps down the street flickers and then goes out in a buzz of electricity that he can hear clearly, and his hands still, watching the street in that direction. When the next light burns out, Sam puts the whetstone down and holds two of the longer knives, one in each hand, and stands up slowly, eyes searching for whatever’s causing this. Lights across the street from each other, five houses down, die out, and the door behind Sam opens, Jim coming out and holding a shotgun. 

“You seen it?” he asks, voice as quiet as a soft breeze, and Sam shakes his head as the tricycle parked in the driveway four houses down tips over on its side, wheels spinning in the still air. Jim tenses, hefts up the shotgun and holds it ready to aim and Sam crouches, knives tucked against his body and ready to attack. Sam’s eyes are on the next light, the next flowerboxes, waiting; they both wait, and it feels like an eternity later when the lights flicker back on, the tricycle wheels stop spinning. The atmosphere of the street lightens and the back of Sam’s neck stops prickling, stops trying to warn him that someone’s watching. Jim exhales and sits down, careful of the knives and the whetstone, the shotgun lying across his legs, and asks, “What’re you doing up?” Sam sits as well, shrugs and replies, “Couldn’t sleep,” and then, “You?” Jim laughs a little and says, “Sam, you don’t get to be my age in this business without developing a sense that’ll wake you up when the lights start going out,” and Sam laughs as well, says, “Yeah, guess so.”


	6. The Art of Memory

Neither of them talk about it the next day, just try and stick to their routine as much as possible. Sam can’t really focus, not with an hour of sleep and Dean and Dad coming back maybe-tomorrow, so Jim coaxes a discussion out of Sam on the integration of naturalistic pagan practices into pre-Augustinian Christianity, and Sam gives in after half an hour of fidgeting to argue about whether the Christian holidays are really pagan with extra glossing-over. It takes them through a rambling debate of everything Sam’s learned the past week and when he’s finished a ten-minute harangue and leaned back in his chair, Jim smiles. “The Order will want to kidnap you any day now,” he says, and Sam feels proud and depressed, that he can so obviously impress this man who’s practically an uncle and that his future will be tied up in old Latin and things-that-go-bump instead of getting away. 

Sam’s getting restless again, ready to move, like he can’t sit here any longer, and Jim must see it because he calls an early night and they go out for dinner to a local place where most of the people are ordering off the senior menu and pretty much everyone says hello when they walk in and seat themselves. The people here in Blue Earth are used to seeing Sam around, most believe he’s Jim’s nephew and has a travelling salesman father, an idea Jim’s subtly encouraged, and as Sam orders the chicken dinner with mashed potatoes instead of fries, he looks around and bleeds envy. None of these people believe in the things that govern his life; they wouldn’t know how to kill a black dog, they don’t believe the church really needs exorcists these days, if ever, and they’d lock him up in a heartbeat if he said he’d met a fae a week ago and destroyed a gate to the Otherworld using nothing but his blood and screams. 

“This is what she meant, isn’t it?” Sam asks, and his voice sounds old, tired, lost. Jim shakes his head in confusion and Sam adds, “The fae. This is what she meant about living among the blind,” and Jim gets it, face clearing and clouding simultaneously. Their waitress comes by and tops off Jim’s coffee, lays down a basket of bread, and wanders off again, and Jim takes a sip before he speaks. “In a war,” he says, quietly, with a half-distant look of recollection, “those on the front lines protect everyone else from seeing the depravity and devastation that humanity is capable of. They sacrifice their innocence for others, long before they’re called upon to sacrifice sleep and safety and their lives. Your father never wanted you and your brother to grow up on the front lines of this war, Sam, but it happened.” 

Sam draws lines in the condensation on his glass of water and rips a piece of bread apart, and then says, “If he didn’t want us to, how did it happen?” and Jim says, eyes watching Sam tear the bread into tiny shreds and then ball them up, “He loves you.” Sam wants to say that if this is love, he doesn’t want to see hate, but he feels bruised inside and the waitress is coming their way carrying two plates and another glass of water. He tears the chicken apart, much like the bread, moves the potatoes around on his plate, and ends up taking his dinner back to the rectory in a white Styrofoam box. 

\--

Friday and Saturday pass in drawn-out minutes and blazing hours, times when the seconds seem to last hours followed by hours that last seconds, and Sam wakes up in the early hours of Sunday, eyes adjusting to the darkness as he hears the rumble of a familiar engine stop outside of the rectory. He gets up, creeps to the window, sees Dean and Dad walk towards the door, and Dad’s limping, favouring his right side, while it looks as if Dean’s whole face is one large bruise. Sam goes out into the hallway and tip-toes halfway down the stairs, sitting out of sight but where he can still hear everything. Dad sends Dean straight to bed and Dean doesn’t argue, which makes Sam wonder if maybe Dean’s hurt in more places than just his face. 

Dad goes into the kitchen and muted conversation drifts up to where Sam’s sitting breath held. He zones out a little, listening to Dad and Jim talk about the drive, the mud men, Caleb’s new weapons cache, but when Dad asks, “And Sam?” he wakes up, cranes his neck to hear Jim say, “We’ve done a lot of research, worked on his rituals and aim. He’s been good.” There’s silence for a moment, Sam imagines Dad chugging down coffee or aspirin or both, and then, even quieter, Dad asks, “Nothing out of the ordinary?” Sam’s mouth is dry, and he gets light-headed when Jim says, “I don’t think we’ll have anything to worry about, John,” and he sits there for a few more minutes, listening to them talk before he goes back to bed and sleeps.

\--

They leave the next morning, before Jim has to celebrate the early Mass, Dad driving, Dean half-asleep in the front passenger seat, and Sam gives Jim a hug before jumping in the back, waving Pascal at Jim as they drive away. They’re out of Minnesota before Dad says, eyes on Sam in the rear-view mirror, “You had a good time?” Sam smiles, actually _smiles_ at his Dad, thinking of the fae, the near-ruin of his life, the quasi-visitation from something demonic that night, all of the books and headaches and arguments, and says, “Jim taught me French.” Dad groans, turns his eyes back to the road, and that’s that. 

\--

Sam’s at school on Monday morning, Dean and Dad having driven all day Sunday and half the night, and his friends act as if he’s been gone for years, but they still tease him between classes, complain about the teachers during lunch, and try to copy his work in math. He’s got a crapload of homework to catch up on before finals next week, but there’s no hassle about it, because Dad apparently _did_ call, and he can still bring his science project in tomorrow for full credit. 

When he gets home and tells Dean and Dad, Dean calls him a dork and ruffles his head. Sam gets him back later by rigging a trip-wire in the obstacle course Dad has them run, and then gets extra miles from Dad for it, but as he’s out running, feet keeping one-two rhythm on the asphalt, he doesn’t really mind. Tomorrow, he’ll turn in his science project, next week he’ll take his finals, and next year he’ll start looking at colleges, figure out what he’s going to need to do to make sure he’s alive long enough to torment his brother when Dean turns twenty, then thirty, then forty.


End file.
